


Heir

by nothingelsematters



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Gen, because plushy is the king!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:51:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingelsematters/pseuds/nothingelsematters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evgeni looks out on the ice, and wonders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heir

The shadows were not a familiar place for Evgeni Plushenko.

 

But the shadows were where he stood for the moment, watching.

 

Watching was also not a familiar theme for Evgeni.

 

His back twinged slightly as he stood there, memories assaulting him. Memories of bygone glory, memories of a time when he was Aidan's age, and already competing for National titles. Memories of a time when he was Maxim's age, ready for his first Olympics; memories of a time when he was Artur's, and preparing for his second.

 

They seemed so young.

 

He glanced around at the crowd; he smiled to himself as he saw a sign, a sign proclaiming him King of the Ice, and a strange thought flitted through his head:  _am I a King without an Heir?_

 

He looked out at the men again, now dancing rather awkwardly in the middle.

 

Kostya, of course, would never be king. Too old, and too much a pain in the federation's backside. But Evgeni cheered for Kostya, because Kostya embodied everything now he wished he could be - strong, fit, keeping up with the youngsters, and at the same age as Evgeni, too. And Kostya's knowing smile was enough, he knew he would sometimes mess with the federation's plans, and what was more, he enjoyed it. No, Kostya was not his heir; Kostya was more like a councillor, an advisor, a friend.

 

Sergei was also too old to the next king, Evgeni thought sadly. If he had one regret about Sochi, it was that he had prevented Sergei from competing there. No, not Maxim, like everybody thought, but Sergei; Sergei who had quietly stood and waited for his turn, Sergei who had earned it, Sergei who had proven at Euros that he was the best of them that season. But Sergei still carried himself with a confident smirk and a wink; he knew that his second-place here was unpopular, that many thought he should have won, and Evgeni hoped that Sergei would be strong enough to go around one last time. Not a king, never a king, but a warrior, a knight.

 

Aidan had the opposite problem. Too young to be king, or even considered a prince. Evgeni's bones ached just watching him. Surely he had never been so young, so light, so carefree? He watched Aidan jump. Not now, not yet, but maybe one day, if the grace of the ice-spirits was with him, he might yet be king, at some future time. His jumps were already so good; could he really have what it took? Evgeni knew the world was different to when he had been Aidan's age; then, the jumps were enough. Now, they were only a small part of a much larger puzzle, a puzzle that try as he might Evgeni could not put together.

 

Maxim. To an outsider, to those who looked on, Maxim was the anointed heir. Favoured already by the federation, landing quads on a (mostly) regular basis, a top five finish at Worlds. Tarasova's golden boy. But Evgeni remembered the trash-talking, the brash young man who believed he was better simply because he was younger, and set everyone else's achievements at naught. He remembered, too, the obnoxious child who had come to Mishin's camp, who had refused to implement any of the technique changes Alexei Nikolaevich had recommended, who had declared that he knew better. No, he could not consider Maxim his heir.

 

Artur...

 

Evgeni's heart constricted. In so many ways, he felt betrayed. He remembered the bright-faced, adoring child who had idolised him; the boy who had followed him everywhere at the rink and had so much promise. And then in later years, older, taller, stronger, the jumps bigger, better, but the eyes still bright, still adoring. Evgeni had been proud of him; he had been certain that Artur would be the next king. But then that light in the eyes had gone out, and Evgeni had never really known why.

 

He had been so disappointed to hear that Artur had left, and even more disappointed when he had heard that Artur was now in Tarasova's stable. And yet Alexei Nikolaevich had not seemed to be excessively distressed by it; he seemed to have some understanding of it that Evgeni still did not have. "Know only that he needs it, more than you know."

 

But to look at him now, the smile on his face, the brightness back in his eyes, and remembering the quad Salchow yesterday...maybe Alexei Nikolaevich was right. Maybe it had been better for Artur to leave.

 

He was nudged by one of the helpers, and skated out, still determined to show the others who was king, still strong, still able. The muscle memory for the quad had been ingrained into his body for nearly two decades; he could do the jump almost on autopilot, and so he did.

 

And then as the others came in to continue the finale, he met Artur's gaze. Artur returned it, unflinching, and for a moment Evgeni was sad; the adoring, idolising child was gone. But the young man who met his look regarded him as an equal, and something was gone, with a renewed spark behind the green.

 

Evgeni smiled as he turned back to the audience.

 

Maybe the king still had an heir after all.

 

 

END.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the finale of the Russian Nationals gala.


End file.
